You know the truth
the one that stinks under your armpits
the one that hasn’t showered for three days
that is baffling itself within your left brain
that cries on stormy nights
that closes the blinds
to keep the midnight nigh.
You know the truth
when it sparkles mid-conversation
and wakes as if from a delirium
the pain in your neck fleeing
at the prospect of a vacation
the filth on your face
washing away for a slumbering
imaginarium.
You know the truth
when it leaves you again
like all your vivacious acquaintances
when your fort starts to crumble again
and you can’t but hibernate
away from all that you have lived and made
all that you could ever have.
You know the truth
when it bleeds from the cuts on your wrists
when it hovers around your sleeping pills
when it hangs from the ceiling
when it disappears into nothing
unfeeling, cruel and murderous.
Photo by Sasha Freemind on Unsplash
A heathen poet 